


All of Me

by yourdykeinshiningarmor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Slow Dancing, Weddings, not John or Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdykeinshiningarmor/pseuds/yourdykeinshiningarmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally learns to dance properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks in advance for reading! Please let me know what you think with kudos, comments, or constructive criticism. You can also find me on my [Tumblr](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I was inspired by a song while driving home from the Sherlock Seattle Con (which was awesome!) and had to get the story out. Hope y'all enjoy :)

It has been two years since John had lost Mary and the baby. Mary hadn’t even realized she was ill, the pancreatic mass found when they went for their first ultrasound. By the time surgery was scheduled, it had spread to her liver and other organs. John sat by helplessly as the cancer destroyed his wife’s body and the treatments took their daughter. She fought for six months, before it was too much; one evening they said their good nights and she had passed quietly in her sleep. It was the best outcome he could have hoped for. He’d moved back to Baker Street not long after that. His and Mary’s flat on the outskirts of London was too full of memories to stay there.

Now John was getting ready for another wedding. Well, wedding wasn’t quite the right word. Harry and Clara were renewing their vows in a couple months, and John was appointed Harry’s best man. There wasn’t nearly as much planning as John’s wedding had needed but there was one detail that he kept avoiding: _dancing_. Their father had died several years ago and Harry had asked John to dance with her during the father/daughter dance. He had also been reliably informed that Clara’s dad was ballroom dancer and wouldn’t stand for any “awkward-teenage-shuffle” dancing that he heard went on at John's wedding. Now, John was left in a predicament. He didn’t want to spend money on lessons but also didn’t want to cause a scene at the wedding, even if Harry didn’t care about how they danced.

John sat in his chair ( _how_ was _it still in one piece after all these years?!_ ) contemplating his conundrum.

“I could teach you.”

 John blinked, looking up to where Sherlock was peering down his microscope lens. “Sorry, what?”

“Really, John.” He glanced over, “you know how I feel about that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes before continuing, “I _said_ , that I could teach you.”

John’s face remained blank.

“To dance,” he clarified.

John stared a moment longer, comprehension finally reaching him. Then he frowned, “You know how to _dance_?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes as he turned back to his specimen. “Seriously, John, do keep up. I would not offer to teach you if I did not already possess the knowledge.”

John’s head bobbed around on his shoulders, acknowledging the truth of the statement.

“I was thinking we’d start this Saturday. You have a short shift at the surgery and Lestrade isn’t normally at work so the probability of a case is less.”

John still wasn’t sure what to make of the offer. It wasn’t that he was afraid to have Sherlock teach him or that he would feel awkward to be so close to the man. They had long ago abandoned their inhibitions with each other, Sherlock being the only one really privy to John during his period of grief after Mary’s death. They moved easily around each other, not ashamed to be well within the other’s space or of the inevitable touches that occurred. On the contrary, the lingering and impromptu touches were one of the things he treasured most about their current friendship. It helped fill the void of more that he found he was wanting with Sherlock. Perhaps, part of him was always a bit surprised when Sherlock offered to do something nice for John without some ulterior motive. At least he hoped there wasn’t an ulterior motive behind all this. Maybe—

“John… John… _Jaaaawwwwnnnn_.” Sherlock was staring at him.

John jumped, quickly looking at Sherlock. “Saturdays will be great,” he blurted, face just a bit flustered, knowing that Sherlock just deduced all his thoughts.

Sherlock giggled softly and returned to his experiment. “I promise your tea will be completely safe for consumption.”

John simply threw a glare towards the detective.

\-------------

Over the next few weeks, dance lessons became the norm at 221B. Sherlock started simple with a slow waltz but the pair had so much fun they moved on to other dances. Spontaneous dance parties would happen whenever one or the other wanted to practice, John soon becoming proficient in both the foxtrot and the tango as well.

John realized how far into it all he had got while out at a crime scene one night. Sherlock was off traipsing through the office building pointing out the _obvious_ clues that proved the kidnapping was staged, putting the poor constables in his wake through their paces. John was waiting for him in a corner of the lobby shifting slowing in circles and completely ignoring the rest of the world around him.

“What _are_ you doing, mate?” Lestrade had wandered over in his boredom to watch John spin himself in circles.

“Dancing,” he said, not missing a beat in his steps or answer.

“Why on earth are you dancing at a crime scene?”

John finally stopped and went to stand next to the DI. “Harry’s getting married in two weeks and I’m doing the father/daughter dance with her since our da’s gone. Sherlock’s been teaching me.” He peeked at the DI, mouth firmed closed but eyebrows nearly lost in his silver hair. “Oi, don’t give me that look. You know it’s nothing.”

Greg let out a soft laugh, the old joke never really dropped between him and John, although he was sure there was still a pool at the Yard about the detective and himself.

“It actually quite fun,” John remarked. “Never would have thought it, but it is.”

Greg nodded, mouth opening to return a comment, but the words never left his mouth.

From around the corner, the sound of gunfire rang through the building, followed by several people shouting. Without hesitation both John and Greg ran headlong towards the commotion. By the time they rounded the corner, two of the constables had the suspect cuffed on the floor (who just happened to be the kidnapping victim) but the third was crouched over a figure, a tall lanky figure in a belstaff, on the floor and speaking into his radio about needing an ambulance.

John felt his head spin as he took in the scene. Somehow, he made his way to Sherlock’s side where a bright red spot was spreading across his white shirt. He pulled off Sherlock’s scarf and pressed it over the hole, quickly taking an inventory of any other wounds, desperately trying to keep the panic at bay, and letting his combat training take over. Finding none, he undid the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt and took a peek. He was relieved to see that while the bullet went through and through; it had barely caught the left edge of Sherlock’s abdomen and likely hadn’t hit anything important.

“John, it’s just a flesh wound.” Sherlock tried to laugh but soon found that it was inadvisable.

“Just because I finally got you to watch _Monty Python_ doesn’t mean you get to quote it after getting shot.” His tone brokered no argument, no matter how true the statement.

John probably could have patched him up at home, as the bleeding had slowed considerably after a few minutes, but decided to punish Sherlock for his inappropriate joke. He also needed to hear it from someone else that Sherlock was truly ok. Sherlock complained the entire ride to the A&E and deduced three nurses into tears before Captain Watson made an appearance and Sherlock decided to behave. Sherlock’s reputation of being obstinate may help them get them get treated faster, but there was a limit. Shortly thereafter, they were back to Baker Street.

John jumped out of the cab and made straight for the flat, leaving Sherlock to pay and hobble his way up the stairs. He went straight to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, desperately needing some tea to sooth his frayed nerves. He knew Sherlock was going to make a full recovery, but part of his mind still circled around the fact that Sherlock could have been shot in a much more vital location; he could have died. He barely survived Sherlock’s first “death” and only survived Mary’s because Sherlock had been there to make sure he ate, drank, and bathed. If Sherlock left him again, the dark part of his mind knew, this time, he wouldn’t be far behind the detective.

The creak of leather let him know Sherlock had made it to the couch. John turned, grabbing the tea he didn’t really remember making, and made his way to the sitting room. He set one in front of Sherlock, who had plopped himself down on the end by the door and had let his head rest on the back of the couch, before the doctor sat in his chair and lost himself to his thoughts again. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but his tea was mostly gone and the dregs of it were cold. It was a soft baritone that brought him back to the present.

“John,” the word quiet and so full of concern.

He looked over at Sherlock who was now leaning forward to examine the doctor, his silver blue eyes intense in both their care and their deductions. He sat looking John over for a moment more before gingerly getting to his feet and walking (around the coffee table this time) over to John.

Sherlock stopped in front of him and simply held out his hand. John cocked his head to the side in question but when no answer was forthcoming he did what he always did and followed, slipping his hand comfortably into the long slender one.

John rose to his feet, while Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He saw the blue screen of the music app flash for a second before Sherlock selected “Shuffle.” He walked over and plugged it into the speakers; soft music soon filled the room

He looked over at the man and smiled. Sherlock was going to dance with him. If asked what he needed to get over this strop he was in, dancing would not have been the answer. However, as they came together, John found this was exactly what he needed. Sherlock put his left hand on John’s shoulder, letting him lead. Out of habit, John went to rest his hand on Sherlock’s waist but at the last minute stopped himself. Even if it was just a “flesh wound” he probably wouldn’t appreciate the added pressure on it. He slid his hand up and around, coming to rest just under Sherlock’s scapula. The position pulled them a bit closer than they usually danced but John didn’t mind, the closeness doing more to ease his heart than he would ever admit.

They waltzed through several songs, not really bothering with timing and shuffling a bit more than was proper because of Sherlock’s injury, but they enjoyed it nonetheless. Without meaning to they drifted closer together until John all but had his cheek pressed against Sherlock’s chest. He completely lost himself in the rush caused by the warmth and the _scent_ of Sherlock. My _god,_ why had he never noticed how amazing Sherlock smelled. It was musky and almost sweet (not surprising with how much honey the man took in his tea), something John could only describe as the smell of London, and an undercurrent of something chemical ( _For science, John!_ came into his head unbidden). John let out a big sigh, finally relaxing after the stress of the evening.

It had all been instrumentals so far, mostly songs John enjoyed but have never heard before, so when a familiar piano tune started, he frowned. Apparently one of the stations Sherlock had programmed into his shuffle included lyrical songs. As the words drifted across the room, he found himself self whispering along with it, so softly that he scarcely heard his own voice.

“I'm on your magical mystery ride…”

“All your perfect imperfections…”

“The world is beating you down, I'm around through every mood…”

He could swear he felt Sherlock frown and then the taller man shifted slightly, hands sliding to bring John in closer, closing the tiny gap that had remained between then. John rested his cheek against Sherlock, savoring the feel of the smooth fabric of his shirt against his skin.

He didn’t know when their feet stopped moving, but they were now merely rocking back and forth in each other’s embrace. John tried to get his head back around him, come up with something to say that would express all the emotion and thoughts that were racing through his head and making his heart flutter. He opened his mouth, pausing a moment to think on the words he was about to say, when a loud noise from downstairs caused them both to jump apart.

“BOYS?!” Mrs Hudson had come crashing through the front door and was now making her way frantically up the stairs as fast as her hip would allow. “Are you boys here?”

John collected himself and answered back, “Yes, Mrs. Hudson!” He moved out to the landing just as she was taking the last few steps. “Is everything alright?” Concern flooded him at the look of terror on her face.

She peered into the sitting room, seeing Sherlock standing were John had left in. “Oh, thank god,” she grabbed at her chest. “I was at Mrs. Turner’s and we had the news on and they were reporting on some shots fired in an office building.” She moved into the sitting room and collapsed into John’s chair, absently reaching for Sherlock’s hand as if to reassure herself. “It was brief but I thought I saw you to get into the back of an ambulance and when I called the A&E they didn’t have any record of you there and I panicked. Had to rush right home.” She fanned herself with her handkerchief, dabbing absently at her eyes. “Oh, forgive me the antics of an old lady, I just assumed it was serious if Sherlock wasn’t protesting to go.”

John laughed a bit, “Yeah, that bit was my fault.” He glanced up to Sherlock and smiled. “Some git decided to make a joke about having a flesh wound after being shot and I decided to make him go to hospital to get patched up instead of here.” He threw another glare towards the man who was pointedly ignoring John’s accusations.

He turned back toward woman, “Would you like some tea, Mrs. Hudson?” John felt better now and threw himself towards making their so-much-more-than-just-a-landlady feel better.

“Yes, dear, that would be lovely.”

\-------------

The next couple of weeks passed quickly, between shifts at the surgery and an unexpected number of decent cases. They hadn’t had a spare moment for more dance “lessons” (John wasn’t really sure he could call them lessons anymore but it made him feel better to call them that), manic energy from the cases leaving exhaustion and inevitable sleep in its wake.

They had also both most assuredly _not_ talked about the last night they danced, neither one so much as acknowledging that it had happened. And if it was a bit awkward the next morning, they each just let it hover in the air until a text from Greg and new crime scene dissipated the stale air between them.

Now they sat at a small table just off the dance floor. The wedding was beautiful and went off without a hitch. Harry had cried during the dance, not realizing that John had learned so much just for her. The guests were equally split between enjoying the dance floor and sitting together in small groups at various tables enjoying each other’s company. True to form, John and Sherlock soon found themselves alone at one of the tables, completely content in the other’s presence but absolutely boring to everyone else (or sometimes highly inappropriate, who knew murder was an inappropriate topic for a wedding). Neither one of them needed to fill the silence with pointless words or engage in some of the atrocious dance songs being played (why did _YMCA_ need to be played at every type of function, anyway).

John had been considering his feeling towards the brunette quite a bit since that last dance but didn’t know how to go about telling him. Mostly because he was still unsure about how Sherlock felt about him. That they cared deeply for each other was obvious (even to his “pedestrian” mind) but did Sherlock return his level of affection? The same type of affection that John felt towards him?

He chanced a glance towards the man and smiled at the look of horror on Sherlock’s face as the crowd continued to flail their limbs about impersonating letters. No doubt Sherlock had deleted this song and dance from his mind palace, this viewing soon to follow any others he had seen. As the song ended and the next one started, he heard those same familiar piano notes and his smile fell. Sherlock noticed them too and looked over towards John. No words passed their lips but a silent conversation was passing through their eyes.

John took a shaky breath and rose from his seat. He walked around the table to Sherlock and held out his hand. Sherlock hesitated for just a moment before putting his hand in John’s and following him out onto the dance floor. They easily settled into the same stance they had that night, bodies pressed lightly together, starting to waltz but still in their own time.

Without thinking about it, John starting singing along with the song, voice just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Maybe, if he couldn’t find his own words, he would borrow someone else’s and hope Sherlock could figure it all out.

      “What would I do without your smart mouth?

       Drawing me in, and you kicking me out.

       You've got my head spinning, no kidding, I can't pin you down.

       What's going on in that beautiful mind?

       I'm on your magical mystery ride.

       And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me, but I'll be alright.”

He stopped singing, shifting himself slightly, pressing himself further into Sherlock.

_My head's under water,_

_But I'm breathing fine._

_You're crazy and I'm out of my mind._

John took a deep breath, steadying himself for the next words, before he began again.

      “'Cause all of me,

        Loves all of you.

       Love your curves and all your edges.

       All your perfect imperfections.

       Give your all to me,

       I'll give my all to you.

       You're my end and my beginning.

       Even when I lose I'm winning.

      'Cause I give you all of me.

       And you give me all of you.”

John felt his cheeks flush and was glad Sherlock couldn’t see his face. He was waiting for some mocking comment or some sort of disgruntled huff from the detective but none came. Instead the words that passed Sherlock’s lips nearly stopped him in his tracts.

      “How many times do I have to tell you,

       Even when you're crying you're beautiful too.

       The world is beating you down, I'm around through every mood.

       You're my downfall, you're my muse.       

       My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues.

       I can't stop singing, it's ringing, in my head for you.”

John couldn’t stop himself, he leaned back and looked up at the man, the amazing, beautiful man in his arms. The next few words of the song described his feeling exactly even if he wasn’t listening to the music anymore.

_My head's under water._

_But I'm breathing fine._

_You're crazy and I'm out of my mind._

All his focus was on the man in front of him. He locked eyes with Sherlock just as the baritone continued.

      “'Cause all of me,

       Loves all of you.

       Love your curves and all your edges.

       All your perfect imperfections.

       Give your all to me,

       I'll give my all to you.

       You're my end and my beginning.

       Even when I lose I'm winning.

       'Cause I give you all of me.

       And you give me all of you.”

Sherlock smiled and looked away, slightly embarrassed at the obvious display of affection.

_Give me all of you_.

John was sure his heart had stopped beating entirely then restarted itself, going four times faster than normal.

_Cards on the table, we're both showing hearts_.

Their eyes met again and John knew. He could see that his love for Sherlock was matched if not exceeded by the man’s toward John.

_Risking it all, though it's hard_.

There was only one thing John could think to do. One more step to take.

_‘Cause all of me,_

_Loves all of you._

He let go of Sherlock’s hand and lifted it to the back of brunette’s head, carding his fingers through the curls.

_Love your curves and all your edges._

_All your perfect imperfections._

He drew Sherlock’s face down towards his, leaning up slightly as their lips finally met.

_Give your all to me,_

_I'll give my all to you._

It was soft and warm and heavenly, even if it was a chaste kiss. It felt like it lasted forever but it also wasn’t long enough. He broke away and leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s.

_You're my end and my beginning._

_Even when I lose I'm winning._

He whispered to Sherlock.

     “'Cause I give you all of me.

       And you give me all of you.”

Sherlock answered.

      “I give you all of me.

       And you give me all of you.”

The song ended but the two men continued to dance together for several more minutes. Bodies pressed together, sharing kisses, caresses, and soft laughter. They were lost and happy in their own little world, content to ignore the whispers and the smiles and the few notes that just happened to exchanged hands as the betting pool finally ended.

**Author's Note:**

> The song featured is "All of Me" by John Legend. You can find it on [YouTube ](http://youtu.be/450p7goxZqg) if you would like to listen to it.


End file.
